


the water i'm wading in

by crackthesky



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Fluff, Multi, but like. melancholy fluff kinda, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:02:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25254292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackthesky/pseuds/crackthesky
Summary: a Witcher’s burden is heavy, and the world’s touch can be exhausting, but you will always let him rest.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Comments: 13
Kudos: 131





	the water i'm wading in

He’s tired.

The exhaustion rolls off him like morning mist, soft and suffocating. Geralt drops his spaulders to the floor as you rise from your spot by the hearth.

You had thought you’d seen him as tired as he could get. Thought you’d seen it all - injured, energy depleted, a hunt gone wrong, a creature that was no monster slain without reason - but today, there is a weariness to him that is foreign, a skeleton sketch beneath his skin.

He is a statue come to life, living, breathing stone, hard-edged and heavy and achingly delicate. Statues shatter too, you know, are worn down by the world around them, eroded by existence.

You cross to him quickly, cup his face between your palms. He meets your gaze steadily, the firelight catching on his amber eyes, glazing them soft golden. You ache for him. It’s a low, humming pain, rooted deep inside of you, a bruise that can’t quite heal.

“Are you alright?” you ask quietly.

“I’m fine. Long hunt.”

He isn’t. It wasn’t - it’s been a scant few days since he left. But you don’t need to scrape him to the bone, to cut into the meat of him and make him bleed just for him to tell you what you already know.

You kiss him, pull him to you and drink from his lips. He curls an arm around your waist and tugs you closer, fits you into the curve of his broad frame. His shoulders slump, that mountain range of muscle crumbling just slightly, and sometimes you forget that Geralt wears more armor than most. You sweep a thumb across his cheekbone softly.

“Come,” you say, pulling away. He chases you, one massive hand rough at the nape of your neck, his calloused fingertips striking sparks under your skin, a tinder strike touch. His kiss, though - his kiss is slow, an ember’s soft glow, gentle and steady. You melt into him, weave your fingers through the snowfall drift of his hair.

Geralt teases your breath away with his tongue, steals something from you that you’ve always been willing to give.

“Come,” you say again, whispered against his lips as he rests his forehead against yours. You close your eyes, feel his breath like hearthfire against your lips, all lingering warmth. His thumb traces your jawline, a crescent moon of a scar cut into the thick digit catching against your skin. You tilt your head into his touch, press a kiss against his palm. “Bath, then bed.”

He grunts. You nip at the pad of his thumb.

“No arguing,” you say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

You laugh softly, the sound trickling out of you like wine, full-bodied and rich. “You didn’t need to,” you tell him. “Go.” You nod towards the full copper tub tucked near the hearth.

He goes.

It tells you all you need to know, lets you see that the exhaustion has sunk into the very marrow of him, lines all of his bones. He moves slowly as he undresses, his fingers almost clumsy. His pale skin is warmed by the fire’s glow. You watch the shift of his muscles beneath his skin, swallowing as they cord and flex, a testimony of the raw power he carries in his broad body.

There’s a wine dark bruise spilling across his back, puddling just beneath the thick ridge of his shoulder blade. You should be used to it, you know. You've become an astronomer of sorts, can trace the constellation of scars he’s collected through the years without looking, but the star map of his skin is ever changing, new scars always blooming into being, scattered stark and raised across his body. You will never grow entirely used to it.

You putter around, preparing for an early night. There’s a quiet, familiar crackle of flames, just for a breath. Igni, then. You glance over your shoulder.

Geralt steps into the copper tub and the steam curls up around him, winding up the trellis of his thick thighs before fading into the air. Your breath catches. The firelight throws him into stark relief, kisses golden across his scarred skin, shadows the cut of his hip. It is easy to be blinded by the sheer strength of him, the way his muscles ripple and bunch.

There is more to him, though. There always has been. He sinks into the water, wearing weariness like a cloak, something silken and heavy that lines every inch of him. “Fuck,” he groans, tilting his head back as the water envelops him.

He cracks open an eye as you pad to the washtub. His golden gaze always reminds you of sunlight; you can feel it warm on your skin each time he looks at you.

“Budge up,” you say, stooping to press a kiss at the corner of his lips. 

“Demanding little thing.”

“Yes,” you say, starting to strip.

Geralt grunts, watching with interest as you bare your skin, reaching out to trace wet fingers over the curve of your hip, dipping low to drag his thumb against the crease where your thigh and hip meet.

You pull in a soft breath, the callused pad of his thumb catching on the silk of your skin. Geralt looks up at you, and the softness of the early dawn is in his eyes, those hushed hours when the world belongs to just the two of you tucked secret into his gaze.

“Move,” you chide, nudging at him gently.

He grumbles but sits up to let you settle behind him in the tub. It’s not the most graceful thing you’ve ever done, but it’s worth it to have your thighs bracket his hips, his wet skin slick against yours.

A hush drapes over the two of you like the night sky, encompassing and tender. You pull Geralt’s hair loose, the strands gone silvery at the water’s touch. It flows over your fingers like moonlight. You hum to yourself as you work delicately at the knots, knowing your soft touch unravels more than just the tangles.

Geralt is quiet, but you have long learned to hear the words in his silence.

You coax him forward and sink your soapy hands back into his hair, your fingers slow and firm against his scalp. You dig your thumbs in the wide, knotted column of his neck and drag them up to the base of his skull.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Geralt mutters, his voice thick gravel. You huff a little laugh.

You rinse the lather from his hair slowly. The water slips over him, waterfalls over skin and scars alike. You press a kiss to a ropey scar that winds fat over the ridge of his shoulder, the feel of it familiar and foreign in the same breath, like a dream fading from memory as you wake. You card your fingers through his hair before weaving it into a heavy braid. It’s an intricate pattern, one that anyone from your village would tease you for, a declaration without words.

Geralt has never asked about it, but you think he knows.

You recline against the tub’s high side, tugging at Geralt gently until he follows you. His broad back is warm against your chest, and you can feel each breath he takes, how it ebbs and flows like the tide. You don’t need words, not right now.

He sinks into you, into the cradle of your body, lets you envelop him like water. You can feel the exhaustion melting into something softer, seeping from him like poison from a wound.

You close your eyes and wrap your arms around him, keep him close.

The world makes him weary, you know.

You will always be a place for him to rest.

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea what *gestures around* this is but here you have it now, it's your problem now!!
> 
> i really just needed to get this out of my goddamn head
> 
> hope you are all safe and well!


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